


Amore Inferno

by SageMasterofSass



Category: Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Actual demon Hannibal, M/M, Mental communication, Other tags to be added, Possession, Sharing a Body, Theology professor Will, altho I went ahead and marked the story as E cause c'mon, and Will's mind for that matter, we all know where this is going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SageMasterofSass/pseuds/SageMasterofSass
Summary: Summoning a demon, even on accident, was really not Will's brightest idea.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So the other day I was watching this episode of Supernatural and the plot gave me some ideas, which I then took to Lonnie, and together we came up with this fic! I do a lot of the writing, but honestly this thing wouldn't be possible without them because not only do they do some of the writing, they also come up with wonderful ideas and cheer me on. Seriously, this is the most magical co-writing experience I've ever had. 
> 
>  
> 
> -Sage

_ advexit huius Daemonem _

The words are blurring before his eyes, and once again Will has to fight off a yawn. He’s only marginally successful considering the tears clinging to his lashes, and the uncomfortable ache in his jaw.  

 

Damn this paper. Damn it straight to hell.

 

He probably has a book in here somewhere with instructions on how to do that.

 

If it weren’t for his damned research, and this damned paper by extension, he’d be safely tucked into bed by now. Possibly asleep but more than likely not, but at least he would be relaxed and comfortable and not trying to translate ancient Latin at three in the morning.

 

In retrospect, he probably should not have made that bet with Chilton, but fuck if the man wasn’t annoying as all hell. So here he is, trying to write a paper to prove demonology a proper subfield of theology. Ha, like he’s ever going to prove it, even to his own department here at the university, which is the stipulation of the bet. Or perhaps he should say especially to them, really.

 

Still, he’s going to make the attempt and at the very least he’ll get a damned good paper out of it. By his own terms anyways, and the few other scholars interested in his research.

If he can just keep his eyes open.

 

Blearily, he continues to read aloud from the giant tome on his desk. Normally he’s a silent reader, but he fears that the stillness of his office this late at night and his own hazy thoughts would lull him right over the edge. Solution: badly accented Latin slurring itself off his tongue.

 

The faint rumbling, deep and subsonic, doesn’t really register in his foggy mind until it’s abruptly gone. He glances up, confused, only to watch the long tube light above his head begin to buzz and flicker. Then it too stops, just as quickly as the rumbling.

 

It’s decided, he’s finishing the last two pages of this chapter and then he’s going to walk home to his apartment and crawl into bed. Or worse yet, there’s a lumpy couch in the lounge down the hall. Nobody would look twice to find the reclusive theology professor curled up there come morning.

 

So he refocuses as best he can, and his gaze is drawn to an exact spot about a quarter of the page down. Somehow he knows irrefutably that this is where he left off. He picks up reading, Latin tangling in his mouth as it is always want to do, voice strangely resonant in his ears.

 

When the last word of the chapter rolls itself off his tongue, everything seems to pause, like the world itself has drawn in a deep breath and is waiting in anticipation. Will glances around his cramped office, at the overflowing bookshelves, the forever untidy desk, and the outdated furniture. All is as it was, and then the world breathes out, a harsh exhale that causes everything to tumble about itself, shaking, sinking, spinning. Will doesn’t even have time to react, to grab at his chair or open his mouth or even take a breath of his own because suddenly all is darkness.

 

oOo

 

_ “Awaken, dear man, you must rise.” _

 

The sound of a fist pounding on cheap plywood jars Will from his sleep. He jerks and instantly regrets the action as his knees slam against the underside of his desk, and an errant flailing hand nearly knocks several books from its surface. Blinking stupidly, he stares at his office uncomprehendingly for a long time, his mind whirling to try and fit his memories together.

 

Again, a knocking comes at his door, just as loud and jarring as before. But this time it forces Will out of his head and into the present. 

 

“Come in,” he calls, hastily remembering to try and straighten up his desk a bit. Belatedly he realizes his hair and clothing must be a mess as well, considering he must have fallen asleep sitting up and all, but by then a pretty blonde woman is stepping nervously into his office and he’s forced to pay attention to her. 

 

“Professor Graham.” A student then, though he can’t recall off the top of his head which of his classes she’s in. She could be in all of them for all he knows, he doesn’t tend to look past the rim of his glasses during lecture. 

 

Does he have office hours today? Wait, what day even is it? Will closes his eyes until he sees stars before opening them again to refocus his gaze just above the woman’s ear. She’s speaking but honestly nothing is permeating the fog still shrouding his mind. At the corner of his eye something catches his attention, as if someone were standing just out of his field of view. When he turns his head incrementally, whatever it is vanishes. 

 

“Professor?” 

 

Will jumps a little, and then wearily turns back to his student. “Sorry,” he says dully and rubs the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “What-” 

 

_ “The due date of the paper. She wants an extension.”  _

 

The thought is smooth and unobtrusive, sliding forward without warning or cause. But Will somehow knows it’s truth nonetheless. 

 

“Yes, that’s fine,” he agrees quickly. “Just have it in by next week.”  

Once the young woman is gone Will stands from his desk. Even after having such a clear thought, Will can still feel a blanket of droziness curled around his weary form. Snatching up a pen and post-it, he scribbles down a note before bee-lining down the hall toward the faculty bathroom.

 

Standing at the sink, Will realizes just how exhausted he looks. His clothes are rumpled and his hair is even more unruly than its normal state. He tugs his glasses off and turns on the faucet. The water is shockingly cold against his skin and he wonders absently if he’s coming down with something.It would be just his luck honestly. But it could also just be that he slept upright at his desk all night, and now his body and mind are punishing him for the abuse. 

 

_ “You should rest. You’re running a fever.” _

 

Will’s head shoots up from where he was resting it on the faucet head, eyes scanning the lavatory. He’s alone, nobody in sight, but that definitely hadn’t felt like a thought. At least, not a thought of his own. Like remembering an old, familiar song, but when he plays it in his head it’s in the wrong key. He runs his fingers through his hair and closes his eyes to calm the ache starting to form behind his eyes. This is the weirdest morning he’s had in a while, and for him that’s saying something. 

 

“ _ Chéri, please. You must sit and rest. How far is your home?”  _

 

He pauses with his palms pressed over his aching eyes and stays absolutely, perfectly still. There is no way he just imagined that. Is there? Is he hallucinating, perhaps? But it’s so coherent…

 

_ “Nihil _ ,  _ no, not a hallucination, carissime.”  _

 

Okay, hallucinations don’t respond. Not like this at least. So maybe he’s just completely lost it? Is now talking to a voice in his head like the poster child for mental illness that he is? 

 

_ “Nihil, not that either.”  _ The voice sounds vaguely amused now, the way one sounds when watching a cute pet do something particularly stupid.  _ “Go back to your office. Sit. We will talk and I will explain all.”  _

 

Okay. Okay the voice in his head is going to explain everything to him, make it all make sense. Like that doesn’t sound completely insane all on its own. Will shakily lowers his arms and barely sees his own reflection in the mirror. It’s fuzzy and distorted, his gaze unfocused. Is the water still on? He doesn’t know and doesn’t care. 

 

Back in his office he closes the door behind himself, and this time locks it. The overhead light is off (he doesn’t remember doing that, but he knows it was on when he fell asleep) and the room is shadowy without it. As far as offices go, he got kind of the shit end of the stick; a cramped space in the interior of a tiny building way off on the edge of campus. There are no windows, not even on the door, and the aging walls distort sound to the point where one can hear a page turning three rooms down, but someone’s ringtone is like a teeny blood-curdling wail, distant and horrifying. 

 

He likes this office though. He’s been to a few in some of the newer buildings; brightly lit things with wide windows and connecting doors, common areas galore to promote mingling interaction. He’ll take his derelict staff room with its lumpy couch and occasionally functioning coffee machine any day. Here it is expected that everyone would rather be left alone, that they’ll turn a blind eye to each other’s eccentricities in exchange for privacy and quiet. Will had once played some music in his office in an attempt to help his writing process and had received no less than three anonymous notes slipped under his door, each one demanding he turn it off. One had even thought he’d been listening to satanic chants. It had been classical music. Either way, it hadn’t helped and he has no intentions of making a second attempt. 

 

With a sigh he collapses back into his chair, rubbing once more at the bridge of his nose. 

 

_ “Chéri, are you always this tired?”  _

 

No. Yes. Probably, considering how little he actually sleeps. But there’s something different about this exhaustion, something beyond the physical. 

 

“Stop calling me that,” he mumbles, and only belatedly realizes he spoke out loud. Oh well, no one here to hear him talk to himself. 

 

_ “My apologizes, but I don’t actually know your name. Perhaps an introduction is in order?”  _

 

“You’re in my head and you don’t even know my name?” What kind of schizophrenic voice is this? 

 

_ “Non, I find it preferable when my host...willingly lets me into their thoughts and memories. You haven’t given me permission so I haven’t gone through your mind more than absolutely necessary.”  _

  
“Host,” Will murmurs, caught on the word, then heaves a sigh. God this feels ridiculous. “My name is Will Graham. Now what the fuck are you doing in my head?” 

**Author's Note:**

> [Sage's writing blog.](http://scribespirare.tumblr.com/) I take prompts here!  
> [Lonnie's blog.](http://looniilesauvage.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  **Translations**  
>  _advexit huius Daemonem_ ; to bring a demon into this world (Latin)  
>  _cheri_ ; darling (French)  
>  _nihil_ ; no (Latin)  
>  _carissime_ ; darling/dearest (Latin)  
>  _non_ ; no (French)


End file.
